House's body comes back to life in painful stages. His stomach wakes him, churning like an uneasy sea. Consciousness works its way through him, leaving him to assess just how bad he feels. His throat burns from vomiting—he can't remember how many times—and his lungs ache. His left arm, when it was shifted to try to attain a more comfortable position, screamed at him. House remembered being on the couch, then on the floor at some point. Obviously, the path between the two had not been gentle.

House sits gingerly, using his right arm for support. Every fiber of his body protests the movement, but he was used to pain. Admittedly, the severity was usually not on par with being trampled by horses, but still. He wasn't weak.

Weak or not, he feels hazy. Bits and pieces of the night were left intact in his mind while others were gone completely, as if someone had laid a thick, black curtain in front of him, so heavy there was no hope of gaining access to what lay beyond the shield.

House's hands shake slightly as he moves the blankets gingerly from around his waist. He pulled his injured leg to the side, moving his functioning appendage simultaneously. His legs dangled over the side of the bed, just touching the cool wood grain of the floor underneath.

Cool…..Floor. How did I get into bed?

His hand find their way to his hair and he runs his nails roughly through the brown (increasingly grey) locks. The scratching feels good and he stretches into the movement. The pleasure of loosening tight muscles is heightened by the dull ache attached to said tissue, and House's throat emits a low moan. He looks for his cane and finds it leaning against the wall. Deciding that he is well enough to get up, House moves for the cane and (slowly) makes his way to the living room. He winces with every step, but the frown deepens and spreads when he finds he is unable to take refuge on his couch, as it is currently occupied by someone with rather shaggy brown hair. House supports himself by placing a hand on the back of the couch, then roughly pokes the sleeping bundle on his couch.

"Wha?—Get away from me." Wilson snaps, fighting to return to the delicious anesthesia that was REM sleep. He curls into the couch, disappearing into the cushions and blankets, while House impatiently keeps poking him.

"Get up, Wilson." House's voice is harsh. He understands that Wilson must have arrived as he lost consciousness yesterday, which means he had seen everything. Worse, he must have taken care of him. This feeling is confirmed when he realizes that he overdosed fully dressed—and now he wore sweats and a tee-shirt. Wilson had seen House at his most vulnerable; he had called Wilson a functional vampire, and he was right. Having seen as much as he did, there was no way Wilson would back off.

Fuck.

House thinks, then gives one last (particularly nasty) prod with his cane (torture device). This results in a desired response; Wilson stirs and finally rises. The younger man rubs his eyes and appraises House.

"God, you're an asshole. How are you feeling?"

"Aww, Jimmy, you sure know how to flatter a guy. I'm fine. Can you leave now?" House answers as sarcastically as he knows how; he needs Wilson to leave, to never want to come back.

"No." Wilson's eyes meet House's, and the look that emanates from them is stubborn determination (Wilson learned from the master).

"What do you mean, 'no?' Get out of my apartment." House looks pointedly at the door. He crosses his arms and waits a moment. When Wilson's static stance acquires no forward momentum, he goes for the jugular.

"Wilson, the street's calling you. Maybe it's your brother….If he isn't dead by now." House makes no eye contact when delivering these venomous words; instead, he waits for them to take effect. He waits to hear Wilson's shoes tap towards the door. Again, he is disappointed.

"You know what I saw when I got here last night?" Wilson says. His tone is suspiciously calm; he's playing House's game—and this time, he won't hold back. He wants to win.

"It was adorable, really. You were on the floor, right by the couch. You were laying in a pool of your own vomit. Total turn on, right?"

"Wilson…." House's tone is a whisper—a threat. Wilson ignores this, smirking at how upset the older man is getting. He continues, and his voice is cold, emotionless. He wants to inflict pain. He wants House to hurt—like House hurt him.

"You were repulsive; I almost left you. Honestly, I didn't care if you lived or died. But I came back, only to make sure you'd live to continue your pathetic, self-indulged life—If you could call it that." Wilson's eyes stay on House's, challenging him, locking him in a stare. House stares back, determined not to break. He won't let Wilson in. He can't.

"So I dragged you into the bathroom and made you drink water until you threw up. You missed the toilet the first few times, mostly because your eyes were rolling back in your head. You couldn't look at solitary objects—and forget speaking! You mostly grunted, and even cried a little. I didn't think you could, but you proved me wrong."

House grips his cane so hard his knuckles are white. His muscles are clenched so hard the blue veins that contrast so well with his milky skin bulge. But he keeps his gaze trained on Wilson.

"When you were done throwing up, I figured I should change your clothes—like an infant. So I got your pajamas. When I came back, you had pissed yourself. So I stripped you, and put your clothes on. While I was dressing you, you reached up and traced my lips. You said one word." Wilson pauses, waiting to see if House will take the bait. The older man's mouth doesn't move, but his eyes beg to be enlightened.

"Constant." Wilson says the word slowly, letting it roll across his tongue.

"I don't know what it means, but you needed to repeat it….then you started crying."

"Is that it?" House barks.

"Well, after I changed you, I put you to bed. So yeah, I guess that's it." Wilson moves toward the door, having said all he needs to say, except—

"You're a sad excuse for a human being. You didn't try to kill yourself because you're worried about Tritter. You OD'd because you wanted to stop hurting people—which you could do if you actually tried. But you can't do that, can you?" Wilson shakes his head at House, and a flitting feeling of sympathy moves through him.

"Because of your precious pride. You can't be vulnerable, right, House? Well, I saw you vulnerable. I saw you when you were an inch from death. And you were a better man then, half-unconscious, barely lucid, than I'd ever seen before." Wilson turns toward away from House as he says this, opening the door and peering into the hallway. He moves to step through, when a hand presses firmly against the door, shutting it.

Wilson turns back to see House inches from his face. The older man's eyes are fierce. Angry. Wilson braces to be hit, and his expectations seem to be fulfilled as House rears back. Wilson closes his eyes, but instead of a hard fist connecting with his cheek, calloused hands, pressed flat on his chest, push him into the door. A mouth closes over his and he opens his eyes in shock.

What the— He begins to think, then abandons the process. House's tongue presses against his mouth and instinctually, he parts his lips to receive the older man. The kiss is fierce, passionate and angry. House is not gentle as their mouths move in and around the other's. But House wants him—really wants him, and that's all Wilson can think about. So he keeps up with his friend; he reciprocates every stroke and movement because it feels right, and whole and like home.

Wilson breaks away after a moment.

"I'm glad you didn't die." He says, not meeting House's gaze.

"I am too, now."